The Crow

The Crow

A year ago, I sent the Crow... a guitar.
And now I look—a billboard and a show.
Oh, brilliant!... She managed to play and sing,
Beautifully—with an artistic, raspy crow.
Whenever she sings in any crowd,
It never brings you down:
A tiny guitar—just three strings—
The singer takes to flight.
Oh, how I love it when the Crow sings!
Recording it all, pressing the button of my dictaphone.
Whenever she sings in my own crowd,
It never brings you down:
A tiny guitar—three silver strings—
The singer takes to flight.
The Crow presses chords with one claw,
With the other—keeps the rhythm's law.
Whenever she sings in her own crowd,
It never brings you down:
A tiny guitar—
Three silver strings...
She plays upon them.
Oh, how I love it when the Crow sings!
Recording it all, pressing the button of my dictaphone.
When she plays at the "Oktyabrsky" hall,
She brings the house down!
A tiny guitar—three silver strings—
She plays it sweet and low, down in the soul...